


In The Woods Somewhere

by vivianne_leigh



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Consent Issues, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, Forest Sex, Forests, Human Sacrifice, Mind Rape, Monsters, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, POV Second Person, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is a Young Adult, Reader is dfab, Reader-Insert, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: Desperate to assuage their concerns about the Beast, some townspeople hit upon the morally-dubious solution of human sacrifice. You are an all-to-easy lamb to lead to slaughter, but what exactly does the Beast do with his offerings?





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gutsbunny (monokuma_theater)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monokuma_theater/gifts).



You’ve never, _ever_ been this lost before.  

The forest branches lean over you in crooked shapes, stretching across the sky like hooked fingers. Above and around you the night presses, hungry and sinister, leaving you shivering in your flimsy sweatshirt as you stumble around. Hands reaching, you press your splayed fingers against a boulder higher then your head, feeling the rough grain of the stone as it slowly warms beneath your fingers. There’s a faint dewing of sweat on your neck and back despite the cold, almost mistlike on your skin. The  sensation is uncomfortable to say the least- an annoying reminder of how long you’ve been wandering around in the dark, tripping on uneven ground and getting slapped by branches 

Your phone is dead, bricked hours ago with a flagging battery, which is just insult to injury because it’s purely your fault you’re in this situation. Taking a walk at dusk wasn’t your worst idea, honestly speaking, but the fact that you had strayed off your usual path by god knows how much had only complicated matters. Now you were alone and lost, walking towards what you hoped was the Eternal Garden Cemetery- the last landmark your phone had given you, before giving way to the smooth darkness of a dead battery.

The first twinges of frustration are starting to set in, particularly when you bang your elbow on a tree that seems to deliberately jump into your path, physics be damned. Irritated, you rub the area before trudging on. It should have been impossible for you to get so lost, yet the landscape seems to be actively twisting itself around you until you've no longer sure if you're tracing your old footsteps or making a new trail entirely. You roll your eyes, stewing, as you lift your eyes to the moon and take a few more dragging steps forward into the dark. 

That's when you trip.

For a few long, awful moments you're nearly breathless as the sensation of floating envelopes you and the earth pulls away beneath you; a half formed noise leaks out of your mouth as you realize you have no idea what you're landing on. Your hands are out, thrust against the dark like you can push it away- but you're not actually touching anything yet _still,_ and you realize with muted horror you might have just stumbled over an drop. As the thought hits home, the temperature _plunges_ , filling the night air with mist that burrows into your skin like hooks and sets your whole body to shivering. It fades soon afterwards, but the lingering chill clings stubbornly to your insides. You're still focusing on how much longer you might have to live when you slam down solidly, your lungs surrendering their oxygen in a strangled croak. Vision wavering, you lay perfectly still and take stock of yourself. When you rub your face, you hands come away wet- a scrape has begun oozing blood on your cheek, and your palms are raw.

The muscles in your legs and arms throb warningly when you roll over, but you stagger upright anyways and turn your focus to your surroundings. Although crushingly dark, the woods are quiet and still, with no breeze and mercifully devoid of animals.

Shaken, you walk on at a slower pace, ears straining for any sign of life or even better, civilization.

Your prayers are answered when you happen upon a bar- tavern, maybe? Nestled between the thickets of trees, a small stable snuggled to its side. From inside the low chatter of patrons spills into the night air, and that’s enough of an invitation for your exhaustion-addled brain. The door makes a pained groan when you slam it open, but you ignore the sound in favor of staggering into the nearest chair. The way you flop into the seat will probably only give you more bruises later, but your muscles are screaming with exhaustion loud enough that you don't care. Satisfied for the moment you burrow your head into your arms, only vaguely aware of the conversations dying to a whisper around you.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

When you finally pull yourself upright, the entire room is staring. You’re staring right back, without shame, because when the **_fuck_** did you end up in a period piece.

Directly to the right, a little man in an honest-to-God Lord Fauntleroy suit gawks at your bedraggled outfit, completely oblivious to the spilled tea puddling on the table before him. Hovering over his shoulder, a ham-faced woman in a grey dress squints warily, while behind _her_ a scrawny thin-faced man stands, looking nervous in pince-nez frames. As you’re still taking in the other, equally bizarre-looking outfits, a chubby older woman slowly steps closer to you, face twisted in uncertainty. “Dearie?” She squeaks out, hoisting her voluminous green skirts with forefinger and thumb as she makes her way to your side. “Are you... _well_?” There’s a double meaning to the simple word, a condescendingly worried undertone, and you feel yourself bristle despite the matronly concern she’s radiating.

“Lady, I’ve _never_ been better,” you drawl snarkily, scrubbing at the worst of the dirt of your face with a stained sleeve. You briefly wonder if your reaction is unwarranted, but as you sit there with soreness threading through your muscles and dried blood clinging to your skin, you think you’re allowed some leeway.  

A murmur sweeps through the crowd and the short man in the Fauntleroy outfit squeezes forward, whispering something to the woman before sidling back into the throng with the self-conscious motions of a guilty child.

She turns her attention back to you slowly, eyes trailing skeptically over the grime clinging to your clothes. A few long seconds pause before she realizes introductions are needed.

“I’m the tavern keeper, here. Name’s Missy- Missy Mary. How old are you, honey?”

“Old enough.” You snap, crossing your arms. You’ve never enjoyed being treated like a child, even when you were one, and now is no exception.

“Does it matter?” the sad man in the glasses interjects, watery eyes flicking over you and away. “Let’s just help them get right again... and then see what happens.”

Despite your mood, you flash a genuine smile at him, pleasantly surprised at the generosity of his statement. When he sees your expression, however, he flinches and scurries behind the other patrons again.

Missy watches his retreat, frowning. When the last part of him and his thinning hair fades from view, she once again turns back to you. “Would a meal improve your mood?” she asks, her plump hand resting on your shoulder. Her expression, while cordial enough, is becoming distant, and you nod quickly, hoping to distract her. At your consensus she nods briskly, already wiping her hands on her apron. “Food it is, then.”

20 minutes later, she slides a blandly-colored bowl of stew in front of you, steam rising from the surface like chunky lava. You take the proffered spoon from her and stir gingerly, concerned at the utter colorlessness of the meal. Something vegetable-like drifts to the surface with your motions, bobbing gently- it might have started out as a carrot, but now looks more like a human toe. You feel the muscles in your face twisting into a grimace, but Missy Mary is still hovering, studiously watching as you cautiously raise a spoonful to your lips. Although the crowd from earlier has mainly dispersed by now, a few stragglers remain, eyes following your hand as it moves towards your mouth with the food. You suddenly find yourself wondering _why_ they're so invested in you meal- is it inedible? Is it rotten? Have you stopped at the 18th century equivalent of a White Castle and are about to be inflicted with some _serious_ diarrhea? Maybe it’s-

The tavern keeper clears her throat from behind you, a soft yet deliberate _ahem_ that startles you into popping the spoon into your mouth. The flavor isn’t terrible: A little overcooked, sure, but nothing that gives you stomach pains. When you swallow, the warmth of the food settles comfortably in your stomach. Missy smiles at you before retreating to the counter, leaving you alone with the meal. Suddenly remembering the diners watching you, you turn to look at them only to see they’ve all turned their backs to you.

Huh.

Weirdly uncomfortable at their behaviour, you quietly eat. When your spoon hits the bowls’ ceramic bottom, you push the entire thing to the side and flop back down again, letting your folded arms build a wall between you and rest of the room. The heat of the food is warming you from the inside out, lulling you into a drowsy rest. Exhausted, you press your cheek to the grain of the table and let your eyes close, ignoring the quiet thumps and whispers of the other guests.

 _Just five minutes,_ you bargain with yourself, as the weight of sleep presses onto you.

_Yeah. Five._

It’s the last thought you have before you slide into unconsciousness.

\-------------------

Everyone watches the stranger for a full minute before anyone moves.

The shoemaker stands up first, shooting a doubtful look at the tavern keeper.

“Are we sure this is necessary? Are we sure this is _right_?”

“I’d like to hear _your_ better ideas!” She snapped, nervously twisting her apron.

“...I have none.”

With the exchange over, she hustled over to the sleeping form and awkwardly hefted them out of the chair, dragging them by the armpits until they slid to the floor bonelessly.

Huffing, she tried to pick them up a second time, only to stumble when she accidentally stepped on her own skirts. Dropping them again, she stomped a dainty shoe in frustration before addressing the squirming crowd. “Oh, fine! Which one of you fine folks- since no one wants to help- would like to be the replacement?”

Dead silence. Outside, the winds rattled the trees.

“Exactly.”

The tiny man in the Fauntleroy outfit stood up again, somehow looking even paler under a thin sheen of perspiration. “I-I say we do what needs to be done! Aren't we all tired of living in fear?”

“Aye, I am.” This from the fat-faced woman in grey.

“Me too.” The droopy eyed man called.

“As am I.” The baker added.

“It keeps me up at night.” The highwayman rasped.

Soon the room was echoing with agreement, and with the help of several of the patron the unconscious body was taken to the back room.

Minutes later, the others had cleared out, leaving only the tavernkeep and the baker in the half-lit space. Both were watching the rise and fall of the sleepers’ chest and trying, desperately, to justify their actions to themselves. To the outside observer, the conversation went like this:

“Mary- Do you think they'll stay asleep?”

“I hope so.”

“Me too. Won't you?”

“Won't I what?”

“Pray for them.” 

“I... I will.”

“Thank you.”

  
“God bless them for their sacrifice. Now, hand me the blindfold, please? There's work to be done.”


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this gathered more attention then I expected. Here's a short update to keep everyone riveted. Also, points to you if you noticed the Bioshock reference.

When you were younger, your mother warned you about taking anything from strangers. You’d scoffed and only pretended to listen, thinking you were oh-too-smart to ever fall for something as simple as that. 

Now, with ropes pinching your skin and a blindfold restricting your vision, you’re starting to regret past yous’ attitude. Panic surges through your veins as you lay there helplessly, and you're suddenly overwhelmed by the need to vomit. You manage to fend off the worst of the nausea, however, and you instead distract yourself by trying to take stock of your surroundings. It’s cold- not bitterly so, but enough that you can feel goosebumps popping up where the breeze touches you. The trees rustle noisily with the wind and you realize you’re outside, roped to what feels like a slab of rock. Despite the breeze and the trees, it seems oddly quiet, like the forest is holding its breath.

You’re alone, right? You think you are, anyway. The noise of the woods does little to console you.

As quietly as possible, you start wiggling free, squirming in short, frantic bursts to loosen the rope. Tears slowly leak down you cheeks as you struggle, but you ignore both them and the sobs in favor of earning your freedom. It’s slow going, and you’re chafing for your efforts, but when the rope slides off in a sad coil it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. A noisy gasp leaves your mouth as you reach up, elbows screamingly raw and tear the blindfold off, throwing it as far away as you can manage.

The darkness that greets you is so complete, so devouring, that you can hardly tell the difference between the blindfold being off and on.

Hesitant to move before your eyes can adjust, you sit up slowly. As you do, a soft rustling noise catches your attention. Your first instinct is to lay back down, and you do- throwing yourself back onto the slab so hard your eyes water.

Carefully, you sit up once more, but the sound makes you freeze again. Nothing else happens after a beat of silence, so you clumsily swing your legs over to the ground. When your feet touch the floor, you feel fabric piling around your legs. Once you’ve gotten your bearings, you smooth your hands across yourself to find out what exactly you’re wearing. Your fingers touch starched material at the waist, before falling lower to trace gracefully flowing fabric.

_A dress?_

A fresh trickle of fear makes its way down your spine, and you shiver involuntarily.

 _Why would they change my clothes? What did they_ **_do_ ** _to me while I was out?_

You push through the dark trees towards where the moonlight is strongest, legs protesting as you stub your toes and scrape your shins on the rocks and shrubs that dot the ground. When you finally crash into the clearing, calves screaming, you are greeted by the supremely underwhelming sight of nothing but a small pond. Nervously, you stumble across the space, hands reaching for the water in hopes of soothing the parts on your arms that had started blistering. The tears are drying in uncomfortable streaks down your face but water is cold and clean against the internal heat of your body.After you’ve shaken your hands dry you thoughtlessly lean over the surface, trying to get a decent look at yourself.

A wave of horror slams into you as you stagger back from the water, hysteria rising fast in as your recognize what you’re wearing. The narrow bodice, the flowing skirt, the elegant sleeves... _Oh, god_.

It’s a wedding dress. Blindly you straighten up and flee, into the greedy dark of the trees.

* * *

 

For all the time you’d been walking, you didn’t feel like you’d made much progress. You’d left the pond behind, too scared of being caught to loiter around the only source of water for god knows how far around. You had to keep _moving,_ staying away from whatever forces had left you out there in the first place, and from... anything else in the woods.

 _Anything else?_ The idea- and the way it leaps into your mind- surprises you. Since your rude awakening, you had yet to see any animals. For now, though, it would do good to put the issue to rest- you’re not safe, and it would waste time to contemplate the wildlife. You slow your steps as yet another stitch cramps your chest, gulping air while clutching your ridiculously full skirts. Squinting at the hangnail moon that occupies the sky, you wonder if you can somehow use its position as a way finding device.

Directly behind you, a twig snaps.

Without even turning to look, you _scream_ and fly deeper into the woods, ignoring the way the twigs and stones pummel bruises into your skin. You don’t stop for a long, long time, even when your chest clenches so hard you almost heave. Breathless, you grab at a nearby tree for balance, knees trembling. Something sticky and cool greets your palm, and you pull back slowly, trying to quell the dawning disgust. Thankfully, it isn’t blood, but sap- a dark, tarry goo that clings to your fingers like syrupy ink. Too tired too care, you slouch to the ground bonelessly, halfheartedly trying to shake the ooze off. 

Sweat beads at your temples, threatening to slide down your face until to you swipe it off with a trembling hand. You’re still sweating, and even though you’ve finally stopped running, you feel even more overheated. Every rustle and crinkle of your full skirts is deafening to your shattered nerves, and you almost write the sounds of it off as adrenaline, until you realize it’s the _only_ sound you hear. The rustle of the trees, the howling of the wind have all fallen away, leaving nothing but dead silence. As you’re realizing this, a shadow falls over you from behind, dwarfing you in its height. The  weight of unseen eyes bore into your skin, and you shudder involuntarily. A voice pours from the darkness, deep and sinister, coiling around you like fog.

_“What crawls in my garden?”_

Paralyzed, you hunch there in the dark, waiting for anything to happen- and then you feel it. A gaunt hand smoothes the skin from your hairline to temple, stunning you with its iciness before withdrawing. You sit there numbly until the dam of adrenaline breaks and you lurch forward, dragging the hem across the uneven terrain as you stumble away on all fours. You force yourself upright and cling to a tree for support, eyes darting around the woods like startled birds.

  
There is nothing.


	3. iii

 

The moon has not moved. 

You have been watching, waiting and _burning_ for it to sink down and make room for the sun- to save you from this waking nightmare. From a logical perspective you know it’s ridiculous, yet through the curtain of fear clouding your thoughts it makes perfect sense. You feel like you’ve been running for most of your life by now- from the unseen _thing_ that has been shadowing your footsteps since you’d awaken, the unseen beast that had lovingly stroked your temple. It had happened again afterwards, and again, and _again_ , each time in a different place: a stroke on your shoulder, a brush on the arm and most recently, a touch on your hip, a barely-there pressure like digging fingertips. You flinched at every one, eyes prickling with tears, but as they didn’t seem to be aiming to hurt you- so you kept moving, arms crossed tightly. If there was a way out of this forest of ghosts, you _would_ find it. Your feet are raw and tender, and every step twinges uncomfortably. Ahead of you, the trees seem to part, but the shadows are too thick for you to make out much.

 _A road?_ Your heart leaps into your chest as you break into a sprint, already anticipating freedom. Shaky laughter spills out of your mouth as you push on, right before something _hard_ catches you in the gut and sends you reeling, stars bursting in your vision as you fall backwards. Your stomach roils with the impact, and you turn your head instinctively as acid bubbles warningly at the back of your throat. Nothing comes up, but you sit there winded until you’re able to stagger upright. Overhead the clouds pull away from the moon, providing dim light for you to see by. For a moment, you’re grateful- until you realize what you’ve found.

The stone slab, with the rope still kicked to the side, greets you.

* * *

 

The wind rustles the trees, and you swear the leaves rustling sounds like laughter. Anger seizes you, drowning out the fear that has become your constant companion.

“ ** _Alright!_ ** **”** You scream, ignoring the way your voice sounds like sandpaper. “ **What the** **_hell_ ** **do you all want? I bet you’re the sick fucks who put me in this dress, right?”** In a fury you yank at the swaths of white lace, ignoring the way your voice breaks into a sob at the end of the question. Against your will, your knees buckle and you slide to the ground, curling into yourself as tears overwhelm you. “I hate you,” you sob, feeling yourself fall to pieces. The trees look on stoically as you blubber pathetically into the dirt, cursing yourself, your life, and your parents for bringing you into this world. The moon retreats behind the clouds again, turning the world back to darkness.

You’re almost out of things to hate when a cold arm encircles your waist, pulling you up like its nothing. You’re so exhausted and terrified you barely react. It isn’t until the person carrying you starts marching to the stone table again that you start struggling. “Please,” you whimper, kicking ineffectually around the crinoline slowing your movements. There is no answer, and they wordlessly hold onto you- one arm against your back and the other hooking you behind the knees. “ _Please_.”

 _Bridal style_ , part of you whispers, and an awful dread sweeps up your spine. 

Wordlessly you’re placed back on the slab, gently enough that you want to scream.

The hands leave but you can feel the presence there, hovering silently. _It isn’t real,_ you think to yourself, quivering. You could feel it now, closer then before- and in a blind panic you wrench your eyelids back open, so wide you think the skin might tear.

White eyes stare into yours, empty gaze a mockery of humanity. Something vital in your sanity crumbles away before a voice reaches your ears.

“I have been waiting for you, _betrothed_.”


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter. Be aware of the nsfw tags, as they all come into play here.

A wail squeezes out of your throat, so frantic and animalistic you almost don’t realize it’s coming from you. Fresh waves of adrenaline surge through your system, and you tense up to run, beg, _anything_ when the shadowy figure catches your cheeks between it’s - _his?_ \- fingers and pinches, hard hands digging into the softness of your cheeks. As you make a move to recoil, you find your wrists are trapped, lashed to the rock by an unseen force.

 _God_ , you don’t want to die.

The world wobbles through a sheen of tears as you start hyperventilating, trying to jerk your head free from the bruising pressure. A stream of words spill from your mouth as you fall to pieces, shaking “P-Please,” you blubber, closing your eyes again as the monsters’ stare bores into you. “I don’t know what you _want_! I- I-”

“Shhhhh.”

One hand drifts forward to cover your mouth, pressing against your lips hard enough to shock you into silence. You twist away from the voice, nightmarish in its calmness, but the hand follows you smoothly. By now your body is so overwhelmed with fear that the emotions are losing definition: you’re steeped in an icy, numbing sludge broken only by the sobs shaking your chest.

“There’s no need for concern."

You slow down and squint at him from between your lashes, confused.

“I’m not going to _kill_ you.” He pauses, gauging your reaction.

“I’m going to _help_ you.”

For emphasis, a thumb drags over your lip, forcing your mouth open. It takes a few seconds for it to sink in- both what he’s just said, and the intention behind it. Your throat tightens and you suck in a gasp, tasting bile and anger and overpowering, sickly sweet terror-

You can’t see it, but you can feel the beast _smile_. The hands slide off, raising goosebumps with their touch.

 _“_ Yes. You understand, now.”

The restraints are still on your wrists, and now on your legs too, but you refuse to go down without a fight. Your back arches as you try to pull free, desperate, a hideous sense of deja vu seizing you-

( **s _top_ ** ) 

Instantly, you relax, muscles loosening against your will. Your head lolls to one side, the texture of the rock cool against your feverish, tear-streaked skin.

“You should be thanking me,” he mutters, long fingers swirling patterns on your exposed collarbones. “Why, I’ve granted you a _mercy_.” A stifled hiccup, then a whimper slip out of your mouth and his motions still, reaching up to swipe at the wetness staining your cheek with a gentleness that makes you want to vomit. “I could have left you to the slow process of time.”

“N-No.” You choke out. Words are starting to evade you. “Not mercy.” Feebly, you try to kick him off, but he hardly reacts to your outburst.

“Why, there’s no need to struggle.” he murmurs, in a way that could almost be mistaken for affection. Anger swells in your chest at his feigned concern, his smugness- you want to spit on him but your mouth is dry and raw from screaming. You’re aware his focus now, the intensity of his stare as his fingertips brush the column of your throat. The cold hand slithers further down, plucking lightly at the fabric of your neckline with a single finger. Something else nudges your ankles apart, pushes your arms away from your sides. The resulting position leaves you spread helplessly,  and you feel his other hand gingerly start dragging the dress off your shoulder. The fear rears its head again, so _complete_ you fail to breathe. “I know you’re frightened.” He hums, nearly right in your ear. Numb, helpless, you feel him stroke the newly exposed skin before reaching around the curve of your neck, undoing the clasp of the dress. You watch the white fabric slide down, the night breeze raising goosebumps on your bare skin.

“It’ll end soon.”

As he speaks, you feel his fingers sliding the dress off, exposing you further. He’s right about one thing- you’re scared senseless, terrified he’ll torture or kill you- but as you shiver in your underwear, watching those dead eyes turn up in a smile, a growing voice in your head is warning you there are fates far _worse_ to suffer. The dress crumples into the dirt, like a discarded wrapping.

You’re so absorbed in the contrast of the white satin against the dirt and shadows you almost don’t notice he’s touching you again; your bra falls away under his hands and he thumbs a nipple, dissecting the way you shiver under him. When he pinches one, then the other, you squirm and bite your lip, fighting the urge to squeal. Maybe it’s the adrenaline flooding your system, but the sensation lights up your pleasure center and you roll your hips automatically. Your pulse flutters, your face flushes and you _hate_ yourself for it.

“Good, good. Now,” he instructs, “ _focus_.”

You don’t want to focus on this- on him, the way his hands pull sounds from you, the whimpers that spill from your lips and the way your thighs have begun to quiver. The touches make you feel sick; powerless and pathetic as he slowly buries his face in the crook of your neck and _bites_ . A thrill of panic rushes up your spine as you feel the teeth against your flesh, expecting pain, but instead he pulls away and does it again. It’s just hard enough to bruise, not to break- you realize with a sudden flash that it's deliberate, leaving marks won’t wash off. He sighs, a cool draft on your throat between bites, ruffling the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. Satisfied, he pulls back to admire the fresh welts for a scant second, before whispering. “I can keep it from being _too_ painful.” As he says this to you, one hand lovingly curled in your hair, you feel his other hand slide down your sternum, tracing a lazy pattern over your stomach before reaching lower and cupping you through your panties. The gentle pressure on your sex pulls a shivery moan from you mouth before you can stop yourself, and you nearly sob with frustration.

“W-Why are you doing this,” you plead, trying to still the urge to grind down on his fingers. “I won’t- I don’t-”

He doesn’t reply, but you know he’s heard by the way something like laughter shakes his chest and how his fingers press harder. Before you can speak again, however, he closes your mouth for you ( ** _quiet_ ** ) and something in you goes brittle with dread as his fingertips nudge their way under the fabric. They skate teasingly over the skin just inside, before he simply- stops.

_What?_

Bewildered, you stare wide eyed at him, trying to ignore the warmth coiling in you. He wipes your face again, almost paternal, before gesturing to the dark around you. When you look around, trying to understand, he leans in- close enough that his terrible blank eyes eclipse the woods around you, searing your vision. You want to look away, to turn to the safety of closed eyes and ignorance, but you’re frozen, a deer in headlights.

“Look around, _meisje._ There is no one here for you. There is **nothing** to save you.”

For emphasis, his hands drift below your waist again, strumming your clit roughly as he speaks. His other fingers feather over the slick fabric clinging to your labia.

“There is only **me** , and there is only my way.”

Then his finger pushes the cloth aside and slides deep into you.

It’s both too much and not enough; his hands are so much longer than yours but also narrower, so as you clench hard around the intrusion you feel both empty and invaded. He adds another and you suck you lip into your mouth, teeth digging in until you taste blood. Apparently he doesn't want that, because a new command wraps pushes into your head ( ** _open_ ** ) and your lips part obediently.

“Isn’t this better?”

 _No, it isn't_ , you want to tell him, but he crooks his fingers inside you and rubs your clit _just right_ that you see stars.

“I think it is.”

You don't fight as he pulls himself out- the teasing has left you boneless and lightheaded. Instead, you only watch as he wipes your wetness off on your cheek, before grabbing both your hands by the wrists, tight enough to bruise.

“I wonder;” he muses, spotlight eyes trailing over your heaving chest. “How does this feel?”

You almost get to ask what he’s referring to but some _thing_ nudges your thigh, and before you can scream he pushes himself in to the hilt in one swift motion. It burns; at the same time, the emptiness disappears and you hear a desperately needy noise leave your lips. He’s cold and smooth inside you, less like the flesh you’d expect and more like marble. The movements he uses are intense, focused- he’s fucking you open. Gradually, it works and you feel yourself stretching open to accommodate him. A twinge of pain pinches your insides when he eases out, then rams back in too fast and slick, not to mention at the wrong angle. You want to hold on to that discomfort, to keep from losing yourself to the building orgasm, but  when he pushes back in it feels good again- if not better. Part of you wants to fight, to claw and scream and hit but the larger part of you simply wants everything to end. Everything.

As if hearing you, he pulls out and slides back in again, filthy slow, free hand cupping you face with nauseating intimacy.

“Perfect.”

All the anger has left you and you’re out of tears- of energy, really, as he picks up the pace, rolling his hips and nudging you towards completion. Except for the deliberate, carefully-made bruises on your neck and chest, he’s incredibly careful with you; a fact which only makes you more despondent. If he hurt you, broke your nose or arm or did _anything_ violent, you’d know he just wanted a thrill- but now, with his eyes boring into yours and his fingers teasing your breast, you know he has something more in mind.

It’s getting harder to breathe as he picks up the pace; the hand that was framing your face is now digging into the soft skin of your hips, holding you still as the tension builds inside, making your hips tremble. Your heart is racing with the impending release.

The sounds you’re making border on shameless and they only get louder as he rocks deeper, mercilessly dragging his thumb over your flushed clit. You’re so, _so_ close you’re shaking and oh _god_ **_please-_ **

He goes completely still before whispering into your ear, voice echoing.

“You’re going to burn **_magnificently_ **.”

With that, he slams into you once more and you’re _gone_. Your eyelids flutter as you come so hard the world flickers to black, and you feel yourself oozing off the stone pedestal, head swimming.

  
The trees blur into an indistinguishable mass as you slouch on the grass, and you barely have a moment to understand what’s happening before you’re crashing hard. Despite your best efforts to stay awake, unconsciousness drags you down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it! Thanks to everyone who left kudos, comments, and support while I finished this! I hope you enjoy.


	5. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick expansion on the final lines at the end of the story. Thanks again for reading!

When you awake, you’re dressed and laid out on the dirt; the white of the gown is buttoned, clean, and wholly intact. You’re more then willing to write off the surreal horrors of before as a bad dream, but before you can fully convince yourself a cough bursts out of your mouth. It’s a painful hacking, like you’ve inhaled food- the more you do it the worse it gets, until you’re dropping to one knee and pounding at your chest. Something wriggles at the back of your throat, and you summon all the energy from your drained body before giving a final splutter and spitting it out onto the ground, where it lay crumpled.

Suddenly terrified, you reach out and smooth the strange thing over your palm. In the low light the shape is confusing, but you when you realize what it is you whimper and shake it off.

It’s a leaf.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to know, the reader is wearing this dress: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/6b/53/9e/6b539e4ce6ff94bfb25ae9ba737d1cac.jpg in all white of course, not pink and yellow.


End file.
